


The Devil's Tongue

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Het Relationship, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Phone Sex, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:44:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A threatening phone call takes a turn for the weird.  Matt and Fisk just decide to roll with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a [kinkmeme prompt](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/3230.html?thread=6217886#cmt6217886) at the Daredevil Kinkmeme. 
> 
> I have a few more chapters planned out, but no ETA on them.

He didn’t notice the buzzing at first, which wasn’t that unusual. Matt was used to tuning out a large percentage of the noise that washed over him every day, letting it create a background white noise, almost soothing in its presence. The buzzing of a cell phone on vibrate was one of those sounds, too commonplace to draw his attention, especially when he was trying to sleep. 

The couple in the building across the street were arguing about money again; there was a man digging through the dumpsters outside; pigeons on the windowsills and roof hooting and flapping and scrabbling their claws into concrete. The ambient noise of traffic, ever present; a helicopter in the distance and the subway rumbling up through the ground, even half the city away, made its way to him, faint sound and vibration in the air. Sirens, too: and these, Matt had a difficult time ignoring. It was going on two in the morning, and he was in bed, instead of out in his city, looking for answers- court in the morning, so he couldn’t chance it.

He dozed for a short time before the buzzing started up again, drawing him back. He focused on it for the first time, and realized the sound was coming from inside the apartment. He sat up, tilted his head, and focused. It wasn’t his burner- that was safely turned off and stowed in his chest, along with his escrima sticks and mask. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed, socks touching the cold wooden floor, and made his way to the living room. 

The buzzing was coming from a table in the corner of the room. He pulled the drawer open and fished out the phone- a flip phone, nondescript, a burner just like his own, but not his. It smelled distinctly wrong. He opened it, and then remembered, suddenly, that it was the phone he had taken from Detective Blake. He hadn’t plugged it in to charge, so the fact that it was even still active was a minor miracle, four days after the fact. Why he hadn’t thrown it away, he couldn’t quite remember.

The phone buzzed again in his hands and he frowned at it. It was impossible to tell who was calling. He ran his fingers over the buttons, mapping them out; it was the same model as his own burner, so he knew the general setup, but it lacked the accessibility options of his personal smartphone. Answering the call wouldn’t be smart. There was no telling who was calling.  
Matt turned the phone around in his hands, frowning, then pressed the talk button. 

He heard the speakers turn on, a static white noise, and picked up the sound of breaths issuing from a heavy chest, deep and slow. A faint heart beat, tinny to his ears, and steady. Then, “Am I speaking to the Man in the Mask?”

Matt dropped the phone.

It clattered to the floor, but he could still hear Fisk clearly as he rumbled, “Are you going to answer me? Are you afraid?”

Matt shook his head, his heart pounding (thankful, not for the first time, that nobody could hear it), and picked the phone up, carefully. He held it to his ear and the sounds from the other end sharpened considerably: the heartbeat, the breathing, and a faint whisper of air being moved through a central heating system. A radio played softly in the background, classical music, and he heard the shifting of fabric as Fisk moved, steadily, as if he were pacing. 

“I can hear you breathing,” Fisk said, softly. 

“What do you want?” Matt asked, at length, attempting to keep his tone neutral and failing. Fisk exhaled, and Matt heard him sit down on something soft, cushions being compressed under his weight.

From the sound of it, Fisk was a big man- but that was all he had to go on so far. His mental picture of Fisk was sparse- a large, lumbering, deep-voiced and vaguely threatening shape in his mind, as yet uncoloured by the sensory data he applied to everything in his world. In contrast, Foggy was a bright, clear figure comprised of the sound of hair whisking on shoulders, the smell of cheap coconut shampoo and strong, sugary coffee, garlic snacks and thrift-store suits.

“I thought we should speak again,” Fisk said. "Clear the air, as it were-“

"You didn’t expect me to survive,” Matt growled, cutting him off. "So now you have to threaten me some more. Let me save you the trouble- I’m not going to stop coming after you. You’re wasting your breath.“ He managed to cut himself off before he could say more, biting his tongue and trying to tamp down the rage that had suddenly taken hold of him, constricting his chest; he thought suddenly, inexplicably, of Vladimir- alone at the end, singing softly to himself as he waited to die. 

"If you would let me speak,” Fisk replied, after a moment. 

Matt huffed in annoyance. “Fine. What do you want?”

“You attempted to assault Leland Owlsley yesterday afternoon. I would advise against doing so again. He has been given an escort to keep him safe, and I feel you should consider- appearances- if you were to assault an elderly man.”

“Owlsley knew what he was getting into when he decided to work with you,” Matt growled. At some point, he’d begun to pace, too distracted to keep his mind on where he was going; he banged his knee into the couch and let out a hiss, more in surprise than pain. On the other end, Fisk went quiet, as if he were listening.

“You’re too easily worked up,” Fisk observed. "I noticed as much during the last- conversation- we had.“

Matt gritted his teeth, biting down his first response, then said, "You mean the conversation where you had me framed and asked me to consider murder? Wow, no wonder I got worked up.” He tried to keep himself steady by gripping the back of the couch with his free hand; the hand holding the phone wanted to clench, too, and he could hear the plastic creaking in protest. "Do you even listen to yourself?“

"You really have no idea what you’re getting in to,” Fisk mused, completely ignoring him, and Matt heard the rustling of fabric as Fisk leaned back in his chair, letting out a put-upon sigh. He sounded like he was preparing to give a lecture- Matt was no stranger to those, thank the various priests and nuns of his orphanage upbringing (not to mention Stick). Being lectured by his worst enemy wasn’t exactly a prospect he was looking forward to at this point.

“Don’t,” Matt said, pinch the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he leaned back against the couch, feeling drained. "Say what you called to say or I’m hanging up.“ He’d probably be hanging up soon, anyway- he had a feeling the phone’s battery was about to give out. He needed to go back to bed, but that certainly wasn’t going to happen now, not the way his heart was pumping, like he was ready for a fight.

"Very well,” Fisk replied, his voice taking on a slightly deeper pitch. "Consider this your last warning. If you continue to involve yourself in my- business- I will do everything I can to find you. So far, I’ve been hoping that you will give up on your own, so I won’t have to- deal with you myself.“ He paused, as though considering his next words. "I want you to understand that this doesn’t end well for you.”

“There’s nothing you can say to make me stop coming after you,” Matt hissed, trying to keep his voice down as much as possible. It was hard, though- Fisk was more infuriating than he remembered, even with the awkward, halting way he spoke. The fact that his heartbeat hadn’t changed made it worse, though; nothing he had said was a lie. Fisk told the truth, like promising to find Matt and kill him was all in a day’s work. For a man like him- it was probably true. "I’m gonna make sure this city knows all about you. You deserve to be on trial for everything you’ve done- all the people you’ve hurt-“

"On trial?” Fisk asked, sounding genuinely confused, for once. "Hmm.“

"What?"

"I suppose I'm more used to death threats," was Fisk's reply.

"I don't kill," Matt said, with feeling. "Not like you."

"And yet you put a man in a coma."

Matt clenched his teeth. "He was still alive."

"Technicalities," Fisk said. "You act like you hold yourself to a higher standard. You don't want to be like me, and yet you purposely set out to hurt people. Do you enjoy it? Is that why you're doing this?"

"Fuck you," Matt hissed, unable to stop himself. "I'm going to tear down everything you've built for yourself, I'm going to show Hell's Kitchen who you really are, and you're going to _pay_ for all the lives you've ruined."  
Fisk was silent for a moment, as though he were processing Matt's words. 

"I see. You do enjoy beating on people, don't you? But you want to tell yourself you don't." Matt opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out. "This is your only outlet, isn't it? Get out your anger- only on people who you think deserve it- and that makes you a good person. You're only trying to help, after all."

Matt wanted to hang up, but his hand was clutching the phone a little too tightly; he couldn't move. Fisk- he was only trying to make him mad, spouting nonsense- but he had no response. 

"It's okay," Fisk continued, encouraged by Matt's silence. "There are worse motivations, I suppose. You're trying to do some good- I see that. But you're interfering with my business, with what I'm trying to do for this city. We don't have to be enemies- we both want the same thing."

"No," Matt choked. "You're- you-"

"Young man. Don't argue with me, please. You know I'm right."

Matt's breath hitched as the words washed over him, and strangely- embarrassingly- they went straight to his dick. _Young man_ \- Jesus. How fucked up was he? Did he really want to know the answer?  
Fisk seemed to notice something was wrong. "Are you still there?" he said, and went quiet as he listened. Matt held his breath, willing himself to ignore the way his cock was starting to stir. It was stupid, and ridiculous, and he wanted to scream.

"Hmm," Fisk said, after a moment. Then, his voice dropped a few octaves, and he murmured, "Your breathing changed. Did you like that? Do you like when I call you 'young man'? Or do you just like being talked down to?"

Matt swallowed. "You're sick," he said, but he still hasn't hung up. 

"And you sound like you're enjoying my voice a little too much." He heard Fisk leaning back, his chair creaking softly under his weight, and Fisk took in a deep breath, exhaling a moment later. Calming himself. "I saw a video of you, fighting the Russians beneath Troika restaurant. You looked exhausted, but it was beautiful. You were beautiful." He paused. "I want you to do something for me."

"...what?" 

"Are you wearing boxers? Jeans? I want you to touch yourself."

Matt's heart skipped a beat, his free hand clenching into a fist. "Fuck you," he tried to growl, but it came out a whisper. 

"What are you wearing? Answer me."

Matt tried not to answer. He tried to hang up the phone. He tried to step away from the couch. None of it happened- his knees felt weak, and his cock was definitely at attention now, and inside his head he saw Fisk seated serenely on his chair, completely unaffected, watching him imperiously with the air of a man who's used to being obeyed. 

"B-boxers," he stammered in disbelief, and his free hand strayed to his crotch. He rested his palm over the bulge of his dick, standing at half-mast, and it twitched at the contact.

"Are you touching yourself?" Fisk asked. Matt grunted an affirmative, too afraid to say more- if he didn't put a voice to it, then it couldn't possibly be happening. "Good. Give your cock a squeeze- tease it a little. Are you hard?"

Matt exhaled shakily, but did as he was told. He could almost feel the blood rushing down, his cock thickening beneath his palm, and he dearly wanted to push his boxers down. He imagined how nice the cool air would feel on his skin, cold where precum had leaked. "Yes," he replied, at length. 

"Very good." Fisk was sounding a little breathless now, and despite himself Matt was glad that he was being affected, too. At least he wasn't alone, as completely and utterly wrong as the situation was. "Close your eyes."

Matt couldn't help it; he snorted, a little too loudly. "Okay," he said, glibly. 

"Is something funny?" Fisk asked, sharply. 

"N-no," Matt stammered, his heart skipping a beat. He was hyped up, taut as a guitar string, and for some reason he felt like Fisk was staring right at him, like he knew. It was stupid. This whole situation was stupid.

So why hadn't he hung up yet?

"Good," Fisk grunted. He wondered if Fisk was touching himself yet- by the way he was breathing, probably. Not for the first time, Matt wished he knew what Fisk looked like- just, for different reasons, now. He knew Fisk was big, tall and heavy if his voice was any indication, the deep way he breathed. His heart seemed to labor at times, and he was clearly older than Matt by at least a decade, probably more. "When I find you- and I will," Fisk said, frighteningly sincere, "I will- impress upon you- the importance of showing respect. You are too impulsive, too reckless. I think you've been wanting this, haven't you." 

He paused, then let out a low rumbling sound, thoughtful, from the back of his throat. Matt swallowed, his hand finally slipping beneath the silk of his boxers. His hand was dry, too dry, the callouses of his palm making him flinch. "Wanting what?" he asked, and his voice came out hushed, a little strained. 

"Someone to tell you what to do," Fisk answered. "You need it, don't you? Someone to keep you in check. Someone to answer to." 

"And you think- that's you?" Matt growled. 

"Yes," came the reply, smug; Matt's fist tried to clench, and he squeezed his cock a little too hard, but it was _good_ , Jesus- he whined, unable to stop himself, and Fisk laughed, softly. "Don't hurt yourself, boy. Shh," he said, as Matt opened his mouth to protest, panting, "Hush. Tell me what you like. What do you want?"

This call to end, Matt's brain supplied, but he couldn't find the will to say it out loud. He imagined Fisk's hands, probably twice as large as his, pulling down the waistband of his boxers, slick palm engulfing his, taking his cock in a vice grip, locking him in place- what would it be like, to be pinned by someone so large, to be unable to fight back? Fisk would kill him, no matter what he was saying now- he knew that, he really did, but- but what if?

"I- I want-" he started, but he couldn't finish. His face was hot, and there was no way Fisk wasn't laughing at him. He let out an angry noise and exhaled shakily. 

"Yes?" Fisk said. "Tell me."

"I like- pain," Matt managed, finally, and it sounded utterly alien to his ears, this cowed voice coming out of his mouth. But it felt good to finally admit it- he'd never said it before, not to any of his girlfriends, though Elektra had probably had an idea.

Fisk didn't laugh at him, and Matt wasn't sure how to feel about that. "Yes, you do," he said, thoughtfully. "Hmm. You'd like to be thrown around a little bit, wouldn't you? You don't look like you weigh much. It wouldn't be difficult. I could pick you up, pin you to the wall by your neck while I fucked you. You would beg me to make it hurt, wouldn't you?" 

Matt gasped, fisting his cock furiously, squeezing out beads of precum that wetted his palm, took away that slight edge of discomfort- he was already perilously close, and Fisk seemed to realize it.

"Calm down," Fisk said, sharply. Matt belatedly realized he was panting. "I didn't say you could come yet."

Matt froze, still breathing heavily, and then exhaled shakily, hating himself for actually doing as Fisk said. But it was a little too late for regrets at this point, with his hand down his pants and his cock hard and aching just from listening to that asshole's voice. 

Fisk took his silence as compliance. "That's it," he said. "Good boy." 

Matt swallowed hard as his dick twitched in interest at that- Jesus, he was really fucked up. He could hear Fisk jerking off even through the phone, the rhythmic slide of fabric and wet skin, the other man's heavy breaths. Matt couldn't hold back the frustrated whine that escaped his throat and Fisk's pulse jumped. 

"Do you want to come?" Fisk asked, breathlessly, and Matt couldn't stop himself from answering, a half-choked out "please" that would have horrified him, if he'd been more in control. A part of him knew he was definitely going to regret this- probably two seconds after making a mess in his boxers- but right now, he didn't care. 

"When I find you," Fisk started, his voice taking a harsh, guttural quality, "When I find you, I will make you beg for this." Matt's entire world had somehow come to center on the sounds coming through over the phone, on the slick slide of Fisk's palm on his cock as he worked himself- Matt's own hand resuming, smooth, fluid strokes, keeping time. 

Finally, Fisk took a breath and exhaled in a gust, released a stuttering moan, and then- 

Silence.

Matt froze. He tilted his head, listening hard, but nothing was coming through the phone: no static, no heartbeat, no breathing. "Fisk?" He swallowed and grabbed the phone in his free hand from where he had wedged it between his shoulder and ear. He pressed a button, but there was no dial tone. The phone had finally died. 

"Fuck!" he growled, hurling it away toward the wall. It hit with a clatter, a piece cracking off as it crashed to the floor. Matt panted in anger and frustration; he was already losing his hard-on, and he'd been so close- _so fucking close-_

He leaned back against the couch and covered his face with his hands, inhaling the musky, familiar scent of his own arousal. He didn't want to think. The last thing he wanted to do right now was to think about how he'd let Wilson-Fucking-Fisk run right over him like that, to take control of the conversation and- and- _pervert it._

He trudged to the bathroom and washed his hands, feeling suddenly tired. The usual sounds of the city at night were filtering back in as his heart rate slowed to normal, the pounding in his ears lessening. He collapsed back into his bed and pulled the comforter over his head, then reached out to touch the clock as an afterthought. Four thirty-two AM.

He thought about going back to pick up the phone, to plug it in to charge. It was probably broken. He wondered if he would have time to go to confession in the morning, and then thought better of that. He wasn't quite sure he could talk to Father Lantom about this particular fucked-up facet of himself. The devil inside him was one thing, easy to talk about in abstract, even if Lantom didn't quite understand it yet. It was the things the devil made him do- those, he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to confess.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa finds out. She's surprisingly okay with this turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on continuing this so soon, but I was heavily inspired by Morningside's fic, [Collector's Eye](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4119078). So here, have 3k of horrible trash pairing doing the do.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any mistakes.

Wilson was preoccupied, that much was clear.

They were laying in his bed together, and it was still novel to be curled up against him, her leg resting between his beneath the sheets. He was always tender and attentive to her, even after she had taken him to bed (and hadn’t that been frighteningly soon; a handful of dates, and she had jumped at the chance, but it was difficult to regret when she didn’t feel ashamed at all). It was strange enough, for Vanessa; most men showed their true face after getting what they wanted from her. She had come to expect it, at her age.

But Wilson was different. He was still that painfully awkward man from their first meeting in the gallery; still struggling with the words to express himself, a current of something dangerous flowing so close to the surface. She had been caught in it from the start. And she knew- she had known all along, it was childish to pretend otherwise- that he was a cruel man, to others. Dangerous, involved in things she would be better off not knowing. But Wilson was also charming, caring, sensitive, passionate. Multifaceted.

He was also increasingly easy to read, the more time she spent with him. Tonight, he was fidgety, playing with his smartphone but not actually focused on it. She knew he was anxious about the press conference held earlier that day. It had gone well, but Wilson was still unused to being in the spotlight. She would have to help him through it.

“Wilson, is something wrong?” She asked, finally, and he started out of his reverie, sparing her a glance before putting the phone down on the bedside table. She saw his eyes stray, briefly, to the painting hung over the bed, the stretching, quiet emptiness of it.

“Just thinking,” he rumbled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s been a long day.”

She reached up and traced a finger along his cheek. “You did well at the conference. You shouldn’t be worried about it. James has told me you’ve already had quite a few calls from supporters.”

“Yes.” He looked down at her and his mouth curved up into a faint smile. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you, Vanessa.”

She leaned up and pressed a kiss against his forehead, felt the creases between his eyebrows smooth beneath her lips. “You just need to be more confident, dear.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but the phone interrupted him, vibrating against the wood surface of the table and cutting through the soft quiet of the bedroom. He frowned, but didn’t reach for it.

“You should get that,” she said, leaning back into her pillow. He glanced at it, still frowning.

“I’ve had- a caller,” he began, stilted. “This isn’t the first time he’s called me tonight. I would rather not speak with him right now.”

“Why? Who is it?” She was intrigued; Wilson didn’t hand his phone number out to just anyone. Wesley took care of that part of the business.

“It-” Wilson started, then broke off. His face was turning rather pink. “It’s nothing important.”

“You said you would be honest with me,” Vanessa said, sternly. She hated to use that against him, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. She wondered for a moment if it was another woman, but discarded the notion a second later; as awkward as he was around women, it was a little difficult to believe.

Wilson exhaled, then reached over to pick up the phone, glancing at the caller ID. There was no name, just a number. “It’s- a man,” he started, forcing the words out. “You saw the news, after the bombings- the vigilante they call the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

Vanessa stared. “A terrorist is calling your phone? Wilson? What is this about? How did he get your number?”

The phone finally stopped buzzing. Wilson contemplated it, choosing his words. “He was only the one who took the fall for- what happened that night. He was- troubling- me and my business partners. The plan was for him to be killed by the police, but he escaped.”

Vanessa mulled this over for a moment, wondering whether she should be shocked or not. It was definitely the most honest he had been so far about his real business. She wasn’t surprised to know that he had arranged this mystery man’s death- not after the bombs that had shaken the neighborhood, all part of Wilson’s master plan. What surprised her was that the man had somehow gotten Wilson’s phone number, and what’s more, actually _called_ him.

“Did you speak to him?” And here- now, Wilson’s face was turning bright red. It was alarming. Vanessa sat up, letting the comforter fall back to reveal her bare breasts, and Wilson refused to look her in the eye. “Wilson?”

“It- this was shortly after our second date,” he felt the need to clarify. “I called him. I knew he had taken a burner phone from a man in my employment. He had assaulted one of my partners earlier that day, and I was- angry.” He paused, sparing a glance at Vanessa’s face. “I called to threaten him because I was so angry. And- well. I got- excited. We both did.”

Vanessa raised an eyebrow at him. “‘Excited’?” It was a strange word choice, and for a moment she didn’t understand. Then, she took in Wilson’s embarrassed expression, the way his hand was playing nervously over the blanket, and she failed to contain the laugh that burst its way out of her throat. “You- Wilson! You had phone sex with this man?”

She half expected him to deny it, but he nodded miserably, and somehow his face turned even redder. She reached out and touched his shoulder, reassuringly, and he looked up to meet her amused expression. It was ridiculous, but imagining Wilson speaking to this man, saying things she hadn’t thought he was capable of- she dearly wanted to hear it for herself.

“Wilson, I’m not mad,” she said, smiling at him. He didn’t seem reassured. “I never thought you would do something like that.”

He frowned. “He is- infuriating. I don’t know what came over me, but I saw a way to, to throw him off balance? And it was- _fun_. And satisfying. Until he hung up on me.”

She laughed. “I imagine he was embarrassed, too.” She smiled, feeling suddenly predatory, and shifted the blanket down, pushing up to her hands and knees. “What did you say to him?” She said, her voice dropping low as she kissed his shoulder, working her way up to his neck. He shuddered, but the tension was leaving him.

“I called him 'young man’ and he reacted strongly to that. I knew, then, that I might be able to- control him. He’s, self-destructive. Impulsive.” He paused, letting Vanessa lay a soft kiss on his chin, tilting his head into it to meet her lips with his own.

“He _wants_ you to hurt him?” She asked, swinging a leg over to straddle his lap. “What did you tell him?”

He growled, low in his throat, as his hands came up to cup her breasts, squeezing gently. “I told him how I was going to- strangle him, while I fucked him. How I would make him beg me to hurt him.”

“You wouldn’t talk to me that way,” she observed, and his hands stilled.

“No- never-” he stammered, but she reached up to shush him.

“I’m not actually fragile, sweetheart,” she reminded him, amused.

“No, but- it’s different, with you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s just a fantasy, Wilson,” she started, but the phone interrupted her, buzzing loudly. She wasn’t surprised; she had been waiting for it to ring again. This man, whoever he was, seemed persistent. “Do you want to answer it?”

Wilson froze, his eyes flickering from the phone to her face, scrutinizing. “Is- do you want to?”

She smiled, wickedly. “Yes. I want to listen.”

He smiled back at her, a tentative thing, then took the phone from her hands, gently. “I’ll put it on speaker.”

He accepted the call and did just that, but there was nothing but silence- then, very faintly, breathing. “Hello?” Wilson said, holding the phone up between them.

For a moment, Vanessa thought the man might have hung up. He was holding his breath. Then, “Fisk.”

“Why are you calling me?” Wilson asked, and all of the hesitation was gone; he sat up straighter, shoulders squaring. “You hung up on me last time.”

The other man didn’t answer for a moment. Then, with some embarrassment, he said, “I didn’t- the battery died.” His voice was low, an undertone, but it was clearly that of a young man, a hint of gravel in his throat. He sounded tired. “I- saw- your press conference.” There was something odd about the way he said it, but Vanessa couldn’t make out the cause of it.

“You called just to tell me that?” Wilson pressed, his voice deepening ever so slightly.

“N-no,” the man said. He was dragging it out, unwilling to state his real purpose. Embarrassment? Maybe. Vanessa caught Wilson’s eye and gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned.

“I don’t have time for this,” Wilson said, haughtily. “Tell me why you called. Now.”

The man huffed out a breath, rising to the bait. “You- you’re not alone.”

This threw Wilson for a loop. He and Vanessa exchanged a glance, Vanessa’s eyebrow raising of its own accord. How had he known? She was sure she wasn’t making a sound, at least nothing that could be heard over Wilson’s voice.

She shrugged, then said, clearly, “Does that bother you?”

The man was silent.

“Sweetheart,” she continued, and it was Wilson’s turn to be surprised. She wondered if he resented her calling another man by a pet name. “You called Wilson with some rather specific expectations. He told me what happened last time.” The man’s breath hitched. “Does my listening in bother you?”

The man was silent, still. “Answer her,” Wilson demanded, roughly.

“I-” the man stammered, and Vanessa’s heart skipped a beat. He was so easily flustered. She had forgotten how young men could be, how easily controlled, whether it was something they wanted or not. This man clearly wanted it; why else would he call Wilson, a man who had tried to arrange his death? It was indeed a strange form of self-destructive behavior.

“Yes, sweetheart?” She murmured, coaxingly.

“No,” he breathed, finally.

“Good,” Wilson said. His free hand resumed its fondling, where it had remained on her breast. He squeezed a nipple and she made a laughing protest before she could catch herself.

“Are you- right now?” For the first time, she noticed the slight way he slurred his words, the lopsided shape of them as they left his mouth. He had been drinking.

“Yes,” she said, plainly. “Does that turn you on? Listening to us? Do you want to hear us make love?”

Wilson set the phone down, gingerly, on the edge of the nightstand, then returned his attention to Vanessa, one hand playing along the line of her spine, down to her hips. She balanced herself with her palm on his chest and arched against him, drawing a moan from his throat as she made contact with his cock. He wasn’t hard yet, but it would only be a matter of time.

“Do you wish you were here with us?” She continued into the silence; he was still there, still listening, if his breathing was any indication. It had picked up, stuttering occasionally in his excitement. “I would have Wilson hold you down, I think, so you can’t move. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Wilson nodded, his hips shifting up to meet hers. “I’d make you suck my cock first. Pin you down and sit on your chest, make sure you can’t get away.” He moaned. “Choke you on my cock. You would fight me, but you'd want it, wouldn't you?”

“Y-yes,” the man said, _finally_.

“You’d be so good for Wilson, wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” Vanessa reached down to take Wilson in hand, already mostly erect now; he was large, nicely proportionate. “His cock is huge,” she said, conspiratorially. “You wouldn’t be able to breathe. But you’d take it. You’d be a good boy and do whatever Wilson asked of you.”

“Yes,” Wilson said, drawing the word out into a moan. “Tell me you want it.”

“I- I want you to-”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Vanessa coaxed. “Tell him what you need.”

“I want you to- choke me,” he said, as if the words were being dragged from him, raw and bloody.

“Yes,” Wilson replied; his hands were gripping ass now, kneading, and she rutted down onto him, teasing his cock with every sliding thrust. “Put my hands on your throat. I’ll leave bruises that won’t fade for weeks. Remind you every time you see them, that you belong to me. Us.”

He leaned forward and captured Vanessa’s lips, more forcefully than he ever had, asserting control. This was the side she had wanted to see- the side of Wilson that knew how to lead, to take charge. She wanted to see more of it, wanted to be the one who taught him how to use it. He could be a force of nature.

She lost herself to it for a while, to the slick slide of his cock against her labia, his fingers delving between her thighs; teasing, fluttering touches that felt electric on her skin. She heard the man panting over the speaker, and reigned herself in. It would be rude to ignore him, after all.

“Are you touching yourself, sweetie?” She asked, and he choked out an affirmative between gasping breaths. “So good,” she sighed, and his breath hitched. “I wish you were here so you could watch us. I want to see you stroking your cock while Wilson fucks me.”

Wilson grunted in agreement, his hands tightening on her ass, lifting her up to her knees. She reached to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer, fishing out a condom. Wilson took it from her, taking a moment to draw a finger into his mouth, sucking and caressing it with his tongue as he opened the package. He rolled it onto himself with only the slightest fumbling, not quite practiced yet.

“And when he’s done with me,” she said, reaching back to grip Wilson’s cock, lining him up, easing herself down onto him, slowly; “We’ll spread you out, get you ready for him. Let him fuck you, hard, like you’ve been wanting.”

Wilson’s face was screwed up in a grimace as he tried to control himself; she felt his hips jerk, despite his efforts to keep still and let her adjust. He was large enough that it took a moment, burning ever so slightly before she could relax enough to let him in. She slid down with a satisfied sigh, her thighs making contact with his, and his palms found her ass again, pushing her up. She set the rhythm, slow, and Wilson let her.

It was _good_ , even better than the past few nights, though they hadn't exactly gotten bored, their relationship new enough to still be in the honeymoon phase, their bodies still novel to each other, begging to be explored- but Wilson had been too preoccupied to give her as much attention as she'd required. Now, she was his entire world, his gaze locked to hers, his teeth baring as he pulled her down onto him, not quite rough, but hard enough to leave red hand prints on her thighs. He had treated her so delicately before, despite her protestations, but now- egged on by another man, he seemed desperate to show his dominance.

Wilson made soft, wondering sounds as she rode him, not quite moans; the man on the phone, in comparison, was gasping heavily, each exhalation ending with a low, gritted sound from between his teeth, like he was trying to hold back and failing. Vanessa added her voice to the mix as she picked up the pace; it was easy, and a little heady to know that she was the reason for it, why they were so worked up- and it was that more than anything that sent her over the edge, Wilson calling her name.

It took her a moment to focus again, for the rushing in her ears to stop, and then she could hear Wilson panting, coming down from his own high. He was leaning back against the headboard, his hands softly kneading her thighs. She caught his eye and smiled at him, then leaned forward for a leisurely kiss.

“Are you still there?” Wilson asked, after a moment. The heavy breathing had subsided, and for a moment sure was sure he had hung up.

“…yes,” the man said, sounding wrung out.

“Did you enjoy yourself, sweetheart?”

Wilson helped her ease off of him, and she lay back beside him, too tired for the moment to clean herself up. Wilson picked up the phone and held it between them. The man didn’t answer.

“Next time,” she continued, “I think you should join us in person.” Wilson raised an eyebrow at her and she laughed.

“N-no,” the man said. “Probably not a good idea.”

“I’m going to find you,” Wilson mused. He was relaxed, loose, and more confident now even in his movements. “You’ll slip up, eventually. And then you’ll be ours. You can protest all you want, boy,” he said, preempting any argument the man might have attempted to muster. “But that won’t change anything.”

“You already belong to us, sweetheart,” Vanessa chimed in.

“No-” was the strangled reply- and then, finally, the phone went silent. The call dropped.

Wilson set the phone down with a frown. “I think we scared him off,” she said, laughing.

“Hmm,” was the response. “Do you want him, Vanessa? I have- I’ve been planning to kill him. I’ve already made arrangements, but-” he broke off, catching her eye. “If you would like, we can have him, first.”

“I want whatever you want, dear,” she said, sighing in contentment. “Though I will admit I’m tempted. I’d like to see you with him.”

“Yes,” he replied, and she could tell he had already made up his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't meant to be more than three chapters, but it happens, I guess. Wilson's POV.

The first thing Wilson noticed as he entered the main gallery room was that Vanessa deep in conversation with a young man wearing dark glasses. The second thing he noticed, was how close the man was standing to her. Seeing them together - Vanessa leaning in as she spoke, with one hand on the man’s arm - sparked a jealous feeling in his chest, and he strode over to them quickly. 

Vanessa turned to greet him with a smile as he approached. "Wilson, you're just in time." 

She looked back to the young man on her arm, and Wilson followed her gaze. On closer inspection, Wilson realized that he looked uncomfortable, like he wanted to pull his arm away from her, but didn't dare to. 

"This is Matthew," Vanessa continued. If she noticed the man's discomfort, she didn't seem to be acknowledging it, strangely enough. Vanessa was usually more in tune with these things, better than Wilson at reading the people around her. He looked back at her, and she met his gaze with an eyebrow quirked. "Say hello to Wilson, dear."

Matthew swallowed visibly. His shoulders were stiff, and he had his head tilted toward Wilson, yet didn't seem to actually be looking at him. Wilson was just about to ask exactly why she was torturing the poor man when he was so clearly uncomfortable, but then he opened his mouth and said, “I - I should go-"

It was the voice of the masked man. Wilson felt his heart skip a beat. 

The man twitched, and Vanessa laughed. "He pretended to be interested in buying a painting. I recognized his voice." 

Matthew didn't respond, his lips pressed firmly in a frown. 

Wilson took a breath, trying to calm himself. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and grab the man by the throat - to choke, to hurt him in every way he’d asked for over the phone - but he didn't want to make a scene. So instead, he decided to follow Vanessa's lead.

"I think perhaps we should, continue this conversation in private," he said, as softly as he could under the circumstances. He stepped up to Matthew's other side, taking that arm in a firm grip and ignoring the way the man flinched at his touch. Vanessa nodded, stepping away to speak to her assistant and leaving Wilson alone with Matthew. 

"I’d thought, perhaps, you’d changed your mind," Wilson murmured, tightening his grip slightly on Matthew’s bicep. Still, Matthew didn't look at him, but he could tell the man's full attention was still focused on him. He tilted his head as though he were listening, his face usually pointed down toward the ground. It was a strange mannerism, and wholly familiar once he thought back to the security footage they had obtained of him. 

Vanessa rejoined them a moment later, taking Matthew's arm in hers again, and together they walked to the exit flanked by Wilson’s guards. Matthew's steps were hesitant - Wilson could feel him pulling back against them slightly - and he had to be tugged along until Vanessa said, exasperated, "If you don't want to walk, I'm sure Wilson can accommodate you."

Matthew flushed - and oh, was that an interesting sight - but stopped resisting after that. They exited onto the sidewalk and an SUV was waiting for them in the loading zone. Wilson looked around for Wesley, a reflex by now, before remembering he wasn't with them tonight. Francis was in his place, opening the door for them, still a little nervous without Wesley there to supervise him.

"Thank you, Francis," he said with a nod. Vanessa climbed into the back seat first, but Matthew set his teeth and refused to move when prodded. Wilson laid a hand across his shoulders, close enough to the base of his neck to drive his point home, and gripped firmly. "Don’t be difficult, Matthew," he said, playing along and allowing a hint of menace to creep into his tone. 

The man tensed, head tilted again, but then his shoulders drooped ever so slightly. He climbed into the car and took his seat beside Vanessa. She immediately took hold of his hand and pulled it into her lap, lacing her fingers with his. He sat rigidly as Wilson hoisted himself up and sat in the seat across from them, their knees brushing. The back of the SUV was by no means cramped, under normal circumstances, but now the air seemed too close, too thick. Matthew inhaled, shakily. 

Wilson took a moment to really look at him as the SUV pulled away from the curb. Matthew was indeed a young man, probably no older than thirty. His hair was dark, parted neatly, but his face was unshaven. His suit was expensive but drab; colorless. Coupled with his pale skin, he looked strangely washed out - until he shifted and a street light caught the edges of his sunglasses, revealing them to be a deep, blood red. It seemed fitting. 

Overall, his appearance was nothing like how Wilson imagined the man in the mask would look like - except for, Wilson noted, his lips. They were full and red, and as Wilson watched he darted his tongue out to wet them, almost teasingly. 

Vanessa was playing with his hand: slow, methodical swipes of her thumb over his knuckles (bruised), meant to reassure. Matthew looked anything but. He was hunched in on himself, staring down at the floor, his dark glasses sliding down his nose enough to show the slightest hint of his eyes as they darted back and forth, as if looking for an exit that failed to present itself. And then suddenly he looked up, toward Wilson (but not directly at him?), hiding his eyes again behind the tinted glass. 

"I'm so pleased you decided to stop by tonight, Matthew," Vanessa said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "Do you like Italian? We have dinner reservations."

Matthew seemed utterly uninterested in contributing to the conversation, so Wilson took it upon himself to reply. "Perhaps it would be best to skip the reservations. We can have something delivered to my penthouse."

Surprisingly, this got a reaction. Matthew raised his head, opening his mouth as if he were going to say something, then appeared to think better of it. As Wilson watched, he visibly steeled himself, taking a few shallow breaths, his hands clenching to fists. 

It was difficult to say whether he was more angry than frightened - his body language was closed off, and Wilson had never been very good at picking up on unspoken signals to begin with - but clearly he was second-guessing his decision to meet with them. Not that Wilson blamed him; he was still weighing the pros and cons of allowing the man to survive this encounter. It amazed Wilson that he had chosen to reveal himself to them at all. 

It was going to be a test of patience, not to rush things, when all Wilson wanted was to take him home and start hurting him - to take him apart, watch him cry, let Vanessa take her pleasure from him -

"You're hurting my hand, Matthew," Vanessa said, mildly, after a moment of tense silence. The hand she was holding had clenched around hers, hard enough that Wilson could see Matthew’s knuckles turning white. 

Wilson's first instinct was to grab him by the throat, but before he could so much as twitch Matthew had relaxed his hand, looking chastised, and Vanessa caught Wilson’s eye and smiled reassuringly. She reached up to run her hand over Matthew's cheek, but he jerked away. "Don't-" he started, and she finally pulled her hand away with a sigh.

Wilson could see Vanessa fighting with herself to be patient now as well. That Matthew was speaking at all now seemed a small victory. "Why don't you tell us what you want then?"

It was mildly suggestive - and Wilson couldn't help but think back to their last phone call - forcing Matthew to admit his desires - it was good to remind him. To establish a precedence: let him learn that all he had to do was ask. It would make the night go more smoothly. Vanessa was far too good at this, Wilson thought with more than a small amount of pride. He was lucky to have her with him, willing to handle the logistics. Otherwise, Wilson might have done something - regrettable - as soon as he'd realized who Matthew was. 

Matthew bared his teeth, briefly reminiscent of a wild animal caught in a trap. Then, he sighed, and leaned back against the seat, defeated. After a few minutes of expectant silence, Matthew finally spoke, stilted and forced. "I am kind of - hungry." There was a note of embarrassment to his voice, like he hadn't wanted to admit it. 

"Let's keep our reservations, then," Vanessa said with some finality, and Wilson pulled the window open behind him and directed Francis. 

"Where - where is this restaurant?" Matthew asked, after a moment. If anything, he seemed more nervous now that they had a destination in mind. The street lights were playing over his face as they passed, his lenses casting red shadows on his skin. Not for the first time, Wilson wondered how he was seeing anything through such dark glasses - it was very much like the mask he wore. Matthew was nothing if not an enigma. 

Well. They had all night, now, to puzzle him out. 

**

By the time they reached the restaurant Matthew was slightly more relaxed, and thankfully didn’t make any more shows of resistance. The waiter seated them and Vanessa perused the wine list while Wilson kept an eye on their guest. Matthew immediately started fidgeting, his hands finding a cloth napkin and making a ruin of its neatly pressed folds. 

"Would you like to choose the wine, Matthew? They have a very nice selection." She placed the wine list on the table before him, and once again, Matthew didn't actually look at it. He shook his head, keeping his gaze averted. He had yet to look her in the face.

It struck Wilson quite suddenly that maybe he _couldn't_. Now that he was really paying attention, he realized that while Matthew would turn his head in the general direction of either of them as they spoke, for the most part he didn't seem to focus on anything; he hadn’t looked around at the decor of the restaurant, and he hadn’t looked down at the napkin before he’d picked it up either. And then there were those sunglasses, seemingly too dark to see through, that he’d refused to remove even though it was quite dim inside the restaurant…

Wilson caught Vanessa's eye, and she nodded slightly, little more than a dip of her chin. 

"You're blind," he blurted, unable to censor himself. Matthew froze, his grip tightening on the napkin in his hands hard enough to turn his knuckles white with the effort. "I don't understand," Wilson said, after a moment of stunned silence. "How? How do you - do the things you do?" He paused, and then added, "It's - remarkable."

"I- I’m not-" Matthew stammered. He was suddenly pale in the restaurant's dim lighting, shoulders stiff, his entire body taut with tension. 

"Please, Matthew," Vanessa said, smoothly, reaching out to lay her hand over his. He twitched at the contact, but didn't fight her as she pried his fingers apart, letting the abused napkin fall free to the table. "Let's be honest with each other tonight, shall we?"

Matthew's lips were pressed tightly in a thin line, like he was trying very hard to keep himself from speaking again. 

The waiter came back, approaching the table slowly as if noticing the tension in the air between them. Wilson wondered, for the first time, what kind of picture they were presenting to outsiders. He and Vanessa had dined here before, so the staff must have recognized them. What must they think, now, of their guest, and the way Vanessa lay her hands on him, easily and without a hint of self-consciousness? And that Matthew was at least twenty years their junior? 

The waiter wisely took their order without comment. Vanessa took the liberty of ordering for Matthew after several attempts at coaxing him to order for himself. All of her efforts amounted to little more than an off-center glare in her general direction. 

As soon as they were alone again, Matthew jerked his hand out of Vanessa's grip. She frowned, but pulled away from him, letting him put some distance between them. "This is - what are you playing at?"

Vanessa answered smoothly, before Wilson had a chance to open his mouth. "We're going to have a nice dinner, Matthew. That's what we're playing at." She paused, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice a little. "And then we're going to take you home, and Wilson will give you what you need." 

Matthew's cheeks flushed. "You - you abducted me, and now you're telling me you're going to-" He cut himself off, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. It didn't work. "And then what? If you think I'm going to - just let you do this-"

"Keep your voice down," Wilson said, firmly, and Matthew hastily closed his mouth with an audible click of teeth - and then looked angry at himself doing so. 

It sent a thrill of adrenaline through him, to see Matthew obey so quickly, without thought. What else would he do, if only Wilson commanded?

"We're not going to do anything you don’t _want_ us to do, Matthew," Vanessa said, a note of confusion in her voice. Matthew tilted his head, his ear pointing toward her, like he was listening to - what? If he didn't have some sort of... ability (superpower still sounded strange), then Wilson would be surprised. 

"You really expect me to believe that?" was the angry response. 

Vanessa smiled tightly, and for the first time Wilson could tell her patience was beginning to run thin. She picked up her glass and took a demure sip of wine, and Wilson knew she was taking the time to compose herself. Matthew was being purposely difficult, so engrossed in playing his part.

Wilson leaned forward and set his hands on the tabletop, applying enough pressure to make it creak in protest. This got Matthew's attention - he immediately sat up straighter in his chair, pointing his face in Wilson's direction, almost expectant. 

"That's enough," he said. He spared the other diners a glance, but nobody had looked their way - or if they had, they were wisely pretending not to. "You will not insult Vanessa like that."

Matthew scoffed, gripping the edge of the table, unconsciously mirroring Wilson. "This is - Over the phone was one thing-" He stumbled, his cheeks flushing a deeper red in remembrance," -but this is fucked up. You're going to _rape_ me, Fisk. No matter how you choose to word it, it's still _rape_."

"I think you're being a little dramatic, Matthew," Vanessa said, lightly, and Matthew rounded on her, a sharp, jerking movement that made the couple at the table nearest them look up in alarm. 

Wilson stood, just as abruptly, the legs of his chair making a high-pitched scraping as he did so. Strangely, Matthew cringed, as if the sound was too loud for him. Wilson rounded the table and took a firm hold on his arm, pulling him to his feet. He knew he was making a scene, the waiter hovering somewhere at his side, asking if everything was okay, but he could only focus on Matthew. If his grip was tighter than strictly necessary, making Matthew grunt in pain, well, it was only what he deserved.

"I think we should speak in private," Wilson said, and then belatedly looked around; they were being stared at by the other diners now, none of them even trying to pretend otherwise. Vanessa crossed her arms and settled back in her chair, the picture of scorn, but something in her eyes was mischievous. She caught Wilson's gaze and winked, the corner of her mouth tilted upward in amusement. 

Wilson didn't give Matthew a chance to protest. He led him away from the table, ignoring the other man's stiffness, the way he dragged his feet with every step, as if he were being led to the gallows. He held his silence until they reached the restroom, where a sharp glare from Wilson made the attendant hastily vacate his post. 

When he was sure they were alone, Wilson pushed Matthew up against the wall, and for the first time Matthew fought back - really fought. He threw his elbow out, catching Wilson in the neck, making him reel. The speed of it was alarming - Matthew followed the initial blow with a fist aimed at Wilson's jaw, and the blow landed, hard, but it wasn't quite enough to faze him. 

Wilson had fought much larger opponents - Matthew was strong, but nowhere near his weight class. He demonstrated this by grabbing a fistful of Matthew's hair and pushing him back into the wall, his other hand still gripping his arm, and threw his weight over him, pinning him. Matthew grunted, then writhed, trying to eel his way out of the hold for a panicked handful of minutes before giving up and going limp. 

Wilson held him there much longer than necessary, in case he wasn't quite finished, but Matthew didn't move. He was panting - short, panicked breaths - but he seemed to have taken the lesson to heart. 

"You are going to apologize to Vanessa," Wilson said, after a moment, keeping his voice as low as possible; not very, in the echoing of the tiled washroom walls. Matthew glared, his glasses askew, revealing his unfocused eyes. "And you're going to be polite for the rest of the meal. You're going to eat, and then you're going to come home with us. I don't want to hear any more - complaining - do I make myself clear?"

Matthew growled at him. "I'm going to _kill you_ ," he said, a note of desperation in his voice. "You can't - why are you doing this? What do you _want_?"

Wilson let him stew for a moment, mulling over the question. It was simple enough - he wanted to play out the scenarios from their conversions - to take his rage out on the man in the mask - but the abstract, the voice over the phone, had made those fantasies much more appealing. Now that he had Matthew in the flesh, things were a little more - complicated. He and Vanessa had assumed Matthew would want this. After all, hadn't he gone along with it? Hadn't he told Wilson exactly what he wanted - to be held down, to have the choice taken from him? Hadn't they been playing their parts the moment he entered the gallery?

"You wanted this," he said, relaxing his grip slightly. "You can't tell me you didn't want it. You told me yourself, Matthew. You put yourself in the position to be noticed - caught - for the sole purpose of bringing this about."

Matthew shook his head. "I was just - gathering information-"

Wilson scoffed. "And yet you spoke with Vanessa, knowing you might give yourself away. You came with us when you could have fought us." 

Matthew exhaled, leaning his head back to expose his throat, and Wilson wondered if he understood the temptation he was presenting. Wilson leaned in, testing, and Matthew tensed. 

"You said - you said you wouldn't hurt me."

"I said I won't do anything you don't want," Wilson replied, and let go of Matthew's arm, loosening his grip on his hair. Matthew didn't move. 

"What if I wanted to leave?" Matthew asked, hesitantly. He swallowed, anxiously, and Wilson watched the muscles of his throat work. He was suddenly aware of their closeness, his fingers on Matthew's scalp, his hips pressed against his waist. He had never been so - intimate - with another man.

"Then you'll be disappointing us," Wilson said, slowly. "But - I won't force you to stay."

Matthew went quiet. "And where would that leave us?"

"You've cost me a lot, Matthew. If you choose to continue to work against me, I will have to - stop you." Wilson curled his fingers loosely over Matthew's exposed throat, and he tensed expectantly. "But I think we should worry about that later. Tonight - I just want you." He tightened his grip, slowly, and Matthew bucked against him - and Wilson could feel exactly how interested Matthew was, now. It took every ounce of willpower not to reach down and take a hold of him - Vanessa was still waiting, after all, and there were more comfortable places to do this than a men's washroom. "I'm going to return to our table now. I assume you can find your own way back?"

Matthew nodded, stiffly, and Wilson let go. Matthew slumped further against the wall, without Wilson to hold him up, curled slightly in on himself, fists clenching at his sides. 

"This isn't - this isn't a good idea," Matthew said, softly, more resigned than anything. 

"Take a few moments to compose yourself. You're a mess right now." His hair was disheveled, his suit bordering on wrinkled, after being manhandled, and there was still an obvious tent in trousers. Bad enough that the other diners had witnessed their - altercation - he and Vanessa would have to quell any distasteful rumors that resulted from this evening. The last thing he needed was for Matthew to make any more of a scene. 

Wilson turned to leave, but a sudden thought struck him, and he paused, considering it. It would be a good way to test Matthew's - dedication - to the proceedings. He reached out again, watching as Matthew tracked the movement of his hand, somehow, and took a hold of his tie. He straightened it, ignoring the way Matthew tried to shrink away, then cinched it up, ever so slightly. 

"What are you doing?" Matthew demanded, already pulling at it; Wilson had tightened the knot enough for it to be tight, but not restricting. 

"No," Wilson said, sternly, pushing Matthew's hand aside. "I expect you to leave it this way, until I say otherwise." He didn't wait for Matthew's reaction; he turned and left the washroom, leaving Matthew to his own devices. 

"Well?" Vanessa asked as Wilson seated himself at their table. She was working on her second glass of wine. "Was your conversation productive, Wilson?"

Wilson allowed himself to smile; still such an awkward feeling, to show so much in public, but being with Vanessa made it so much easier to forget the eyes he knew must be on him. "I think - there were some, misunderstandings that had to be - sorted out." 

Before he could continue, he caught sight of Matthew coming back to the table, hesitantly. He sat down - one hand groping before him to feel for the chair - and settled himself onto it, awkwardly. He swallowed, one finger coming up reflexively toward his collar, his discomfort apparent.


End file.
